


got nothing to show for

by summerstorm



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Community: kissbingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's taking a second to get her head together, calm down before excitement becomes nerves becomes breaking into endless sobs and ruining her own wedding. The keyword to that kind of self-control is composure, so she's attempting to gather some, and nobody's supposed to come in unless she calls for them or the building catches on fire.</p><p>As far as she knows, neither condition applies to David Cook or this particular moment in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got nothing to show for

**Author's Note:**

> For the [**kissbingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/kissbingo/) prompt "location: wedding." Title from Under My Bed by Meiko.

Carrie's so deeply engrossed in not thinking about anything for a couple of minutes that, when she hears the doorknob click—unnecessarily, because her mom left the door open so she wouldn't have to move too much in this dress—her heart jumps in her chest.

So does she, though she manages to keep the undignified squeak that wants to come out with it to herself. She's taking a second to get her head together, calm down before excitement becomes nerves becomes breaking into endless sobs and ruining her own wedding. The keyword to that kind of self-control is composure, so she's attempting to gather some, and nobody's supposed to come in unless she calls for them or the building catches on fire.

As far as she knows, neither condition applies to David Cook or this particular moment in time.

"And this is not the bathroom either, okay," he says, barely bothering to make it sound even like a halfway legit excuse to barge into Carrie's room out of the blue.

It's okay, though. He's an okay person to see. It's _good_ to see him. Plus she's dressed, so it's not inappropriate, and it doesn't trigger any superstitions, because she's not marrying him.

He takes a short breath before tilting his head, face turning thoughtful and a little awed. "Wow."

"You were supposed to _think_ that. To yourself. When you saw me walking down the aisle, like everyone else," Carrie points out, about as seriously as he just basically lied to her. "But thanks. Now if you would please close the door—"

"Sure," he says, and sneaks in before pushing the door back with his heel.

"I meant with you on the other side."

"Well, then you should've been more specific," he says, nodding sagely. She allows herself a soft, relieved laugh when he quits standing there without making a move to leave or talk and takes a couple of steps into the room. "You really do look amazing, by the way." He pauses on his tracks to look at her. It would be nerveracking if it were the first time. As it is, she takes it for what it should be: plain and simple admiration of a bride.

"Stop doing that," she says anyway.

"Doing what?"

"You're staring. It's creepy."

He makes a noncommittal sound. "I wanted to see you before you gave yourself away to the hockey WAG ranks." He shudders theatrically, then lifts a hand as a peace offering. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. I meant to do that last night, but then my plane got delayed, so. I'm doing it now."

She tuns back to the mirror as he reduces the distance between them into something more friendly than undeservedly reverent. If she blocks out the sound of his footsteps and just watches his oblique reflection on the mirror, it almost feels like she's watching somebody else's life, or herself in a dream, somewhere Dave is a good friend who wants to wish her good luck before it's impossible to get a moment with her in private. Somewhere there's no unaddressed tension and she's never—

"There's a hair stuck to the back, under your arm," he says, voice soft and questioning. She stands still until he gets rid of it, and yeah, in the mirror, he states a fact and helps, he doesn't have to imply _are you comfortable with this_ with his words. It's a good place, in the mirror. The way he's standing, so close to her, brushing her elbow with his knuckles, is a non-issue there. In the mirror, she's never dodged it before, she doesn't know what a little thing like that can lead to, what she's capable of letting it lead to.

She tries to channel that non-issueness, only when she turns to face him, his hands fall to her waist and he's kind of right there and she fails.

"So, you're getting..." Dave says, words fizzling out into a sharp intake of breath. She shrugs, nodding. She is getting married. It's a pointless observation. "No cold feet?"

She chuckles. "No cold feet."

"Not even one?"

It's hard to be bothered by the question; on anyone else in their situation it would sound like fishing, but from Dave, all she gets is genuine concern. On a deep, malicious level of her conscious, she suspects he's just a very good liar—but that doesn't mean she doesn't buy the act all the same. "They're both plenty warm, thanks. So warm they're sweaty, even." She makes a face. "It's kind of gross."

"Speaking of gross, I'm still hurt you didn't even invite me to your bachelorette's." She opens her mouth to complain, but he interrupts her before she's even started. It would be annoying if—no, scratch that, it is pretty annoying. "I would have stripped. I would have brought my own giant hollow cake. I know how much you like giant hollow cakes." It's so annoying she has no idea why it makes her smile.

"Yeah?" Her tone matches his, and it dawns on her they're joking in hush tones, like this completely idiotic conversation is a national secret. She should snap them both out of it, but she's comfortable, and she doesn't want to risk snapping him away from her. "And how much is that?"

"A hell of a lot," he ventures, face the embodiment of sobriety, and leans in to whisper in her ear, "or not at all. I get those confused."

His lips brush her lobe, and she doesn't dodge the chaste, barely-there kiss that follows, or the way his beard scrapes her skin as he mouths his way across her jaw.

His lips brush her own, and she doesn't dodge the kiss that follows that either; she doesn't want to.

She kisses back because she does.

It doesn't last very long, but it goes on a while, slower than it feels, lingering through a rush of emotions she knows he's not feeling any less than she does, no matter how unhurriedly he's kissing her. If the pace was based on want and want alone, it would be a much different kiss; this one's anchored in caution and timing—it's more than she can ask of Mike to have this be anything other than a goodbye kiss—and an edge of guilt. It's more present for him, she knows, because while she feels guilty over a third person, he—well, he's never said it in as many words, and he _shouldn't_ , but she knows he feels bad for dragging her into this situation, like it's even remotely his fault.

She holds onto the back of his neck to pull him closer, parting her lips, urging him on and giving as good as she gets. When he pulls back, she follows him blindly for a moment, caught up. Then she shifts her head back into a less strained angle, though it doesn't feel like anything has stopped, somehow. She can still feel his breath on her nose. His hands are still on her waist, not overbearingly so but firm, and she's still leaning into them.

"I'm getting married," she says softly, not making a move to tear herself apart. She trusts him to keep her upright, to maintain the distance they just managed to put between them.

"I know," he says.

"Today," she adds. It feels like an important distinction and empty words both at the same time. His hands fall to her hips, and she can barely feel them, just his fingertips resting lightly on the small of her back, not all the way present.

Dave's nose grazes hers, but he doesn't push any further. "Do you?" he asks, and she frowns, confused.

"Do I what?"

"Know," he begins, raspy, serious in all honesty this time, careful. He clears his throat. "Do you know that you're getting married today."

By the end, it doesn't sound like a question, but she answers anyway, voice a little louder, pose a little less dependent on his grip. "Yes. I'd have to be really dumb to forget, seeing as I'm wearing my dress. Which I carefully picked out. Just for this occasion. And—don't make a joke—" Her voice breaks, but she gets it back with an attempt at a smile. "Don't make a joke about whether 'this occasion' means I planned to make out with you an hour before my wedding with Mike that far in advance, because that would be depressing and inappropriate—unsolicited—and I don't—I already have my make-up on, and if it runs, I will hurt you."

"I'm dutifully scared to tell you this, then," he says, "but it may already be too late for that. At the very least, you might have to redo the lipstick."

She shrugs, feeling a little less on edge. "Or just go without." He cups her jaw with his hand and tilts her chin up with his thumb. When he kisses her again, it's just lips on lips, something that feels simultaneously respectful and unrepentant, gentle even when he licks at the corners of her mouth. When he pulls back, he thumbs at her lips, and she realizes he's getting rid of the color on them, though she wouldn't be surprised if they were darker now than before, darker than her lipstick. "I'm a bride," she adds, when he takes his hand back. "I'm allowed."

Dave nods, and his presence takes longer to fade than he takes to go.


End file.
